<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>to the bone by nastally</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297634">to the bone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally'>nastally</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by..., Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Must Fuck Weekend (Queen), Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Police Brutality, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad, Sexual Assault, Threats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:54:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen are only just starting out, and like his friends, Freddie is permanently penniless. One day, a bad decision leads to worse consequences...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Freddie Mercury/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Queen Must Fuck Weekend</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to the bone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221002">Persuasion</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatashaDuLac/pseuds/NatashaDuLac">NatashaDuLac</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My last entry to Must Fuck Week 2020.</p><p>This was inspired by NatashaDuLac's ficlet <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221002">Persuasion</a> and, quite frankly, a bit of personal experience that apparently wanted out. I originally set out to write at least one very dark story for MFW, and lo and behold, I did.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>PLEASE MIND THE TAGS</b></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>- - - </p><p>The shop's office is cluttered and windowless, little more than a large storage cupboard. There's untidy stacks of papers and folders on the small desk, cardboard boxes everywhere and an underlying smell of mildew which hangs in the air, all of it illuminated by an unadorned light bulb dangling from the ceiling. </p><p>It feels claustrophobic. </p><p>Freddie can't breathe properly. Can't stop his lips trembling as he tries and fails to keep the tears at bay, can't stop his face twitching into an undoubtedly ugly grimace of pitiful despair, his insides in a vice grip of blind panic and overwhelming dread. </p><p>The bobby doesn't seem at all fazed by his upset, nor his frantic apologies and excuses, which <i>are genuine</i>, and a part of Freddie feels like he's clawing at soundproof glass trying to make himself heard. And <i>seen</i>, for who he really is. Just a penniless young man who's made a very bad decision this morning.</p><p>He's never done this before. </p><p>He's never done this in London before. </p><p>Yes, he'd nicked a few things, ages go, in a different time and place. Never anything of real value. He'd been caught then, too, once or twice. But a smack from an enraged stall owner at the market is hardly the same as a police officer sitting in front of him, regarding him as if he's already been convicted. As if this is who he is. <i>A thief</i>. </p><p>As if this is all he is. </p><p>But it's more than that. There are other accusations simmering behind the police officer's eyes as they drift to the bottle of black nail polish with a disapproving, <i>knowing</i> look and then back to Freddie again. </p><p>Bloody poofter, innit. </p><p>That's what his voice sounds like. </p><p><i>Alright, guv'nor. What 'ave we got here?</i> </p><p>Freddie feels his <i>otherness</i> acutely, it's almost as though he can see himself through the man's eyes and he hates it. </p><p>Hates the way his colouring and his features identify him as not belonging when he feels more at home here than he ever has. </p><p>Hates how awkward he feels. Keenly aware of everything from the way he's holding himself to the way he's dressed, hates the outfit he fussed over this morning until it was just right. Floral patterns and black silk. </p><p>He dabs tears away from the corners of his eyes before they can fall, pretends they're not obvious. </p><p>And wishes himself back to an hour ago, half an hour ago, impossible as it is. Yet his mind can't stop chanting it; <i>If only I hadn't, if only, if only, if only- oh God-</i></p><p>Should have listened. Should have listened to his intuition, yelling at him to turn around and leave it. Down to his bones he'd felt it, trying to warn him.</p><p>But he'd just- </p><p>He'd just wanted everything to be perfect for the gig. Just so. It was only a small bottle of nail polish, just this once, he wouldn't really be hurting anyone. </p><p>"Doesn't look good for you, son, truth be told." The bobby is a middle aged man, out of shape and ruddy-faced. His hand is resting on his helmet, which he has put down on the desk. "I'm afraid I'll have to take you into custody." </p><p>From his mouth tumbles the perhaps most ridiculous protest Freddie could have possibly voiced. "No, please, you can't do that, l... <i>please</i>. We're going to play at the Imperial College tomorrow, my band and I- if you could just- just this <i>once</i>-" </p><p>He stops when his voice cracks, pulling his lips over his teeth tightly. It's pointless, isn't it. But hope dies last, and a part of him is still in shock, still can't believe that this is really happening. All his efforts are focused on trying to keep it together, keep swallowing the lump in his throat, not actually bursting into hysterical tears because it won't earn him any pity, only more judgement. He barely takes in the officer's response, the gist of it that he's pleading in vain. The man is on his feet and standing by the door, now, his helmet under his arm. Freddie moves to stand as well. Still unable to fathom the reality of the situation. </p><p>This is it, he's being arrested. He's actually being arrested. His heart is hammering so hard in his chest it hurts. </p><p>How can this be real? All because of a fucking bottle of nail polish. It would be funny if it wasn't one of the worst things to ever have happened to him. The cold bleakness of acceptance is just starting to settle. But then Freddie looks up and freezes. The officer's hand is on the key which is sticking out of the lock.</p><p>Freddie watches him turn it and forgets to breathe, for a moment, as he drops back down onto the chair. His insides draw together tighter, a gut reaction, quite literally, even before he has so much as begun to understand what is going on.</p><p>"I suppose," says the man as Freddie's eyes snap up to him, wide with confusion and instinctive fear. "I <i>could</i> let you off with a caution, this one time." </p><p>Freddie stares at him, open-mouthed. "Please, officer." The words come out barely more than a whisper.</p><p>The bobby considers him for a long moment. Freddie squirms under his appraising gaze. Then the man straightens out his uniform, glancing around the room. When he speaks next, his voice has changed. Perhaps it is that he no longer sounds as though he's just tiredly rambling off the legal repercussions of his actions to yet another young, good-for-nothing delinquent.</p><p>"Suppose we could do each other a favour." </p><p>Freddie watches him step away from the door and place the helmet back down, replies before he can think about it. </p><p>"Of course, anything," he assures desperately - innocently - looking up at the man as he comes to stand right in front of him, uncomfortably close, leaning back against the desk. His hands on the belt of his jacket. </p><p>"Anything, eh?" The officer isn't looking at him at all now, despite standing so close, and there's a horrible feeling churning in the pit of Freddie's stomach. A suspicion so awful he doesn't want to believe that it could be true. It can't be, no one would do that. For fuck's sakes, a <i>bobby</i> wouldn't do that. </p><p>And so it is with horrified disbelief that Freddie watches him undo the belt on his jacket, quite casually, and then start on the buttons of the jacket which sits tight over his beer belly, his eyes on the door all the while.</p><p>The locked door. </p><p>"What's it gonna be?" The man murmurs, and clears his throat, brushing the opened jacket aside and hooking his thumbs into the belt of his trousers. "Custody and prosecution or a slap on the wrist? I reckon I could be persuaded."</p><p>Freddie sits stiff as a board, clutching the sides of the chair, unseeingly staring at the belt buckle and the veiny, large hands on either side of it. Knows in that moment that it isn't a question of <i>if</i> he's going to do this but <i>how</i>. How he's going to get through it. But no words are forthcoming. What is he meant to say? His lips are dry, his heart in his throat, and he's taking too long to reply. </p><p>The bobby huffs, straightening up from the edge of the desk and reaching up to pull his jacket closed. "Hmm, well, I suppose I'm taking you down to the-" </p><p>"Wait." Freddie gasps and lifts a hand to his mouth, then slowly lowers it. Nods, face flushed with shame and shivering cold all over. </p><p>He can't look up. Can't possibly look that man in the face anymore, but is all the more aware of the other's eyes on him. Looking down on him. </p><p>"I'll... yes. Alright." Just as he manages to get the words out, a sudden thought flashes through his head. What if it's a trap? What if he'll be arrested for something else entirely, for this? Something much worse than theft? His entire life crumbles before his inner eye in numerous, horrific ways in the seconds it takes the man to undo his belt buckle. But then Freddie reasons that, surely, if it were a trap, the officer wouldn't be unzipping his fly right now. Wouldn't be working his underwear down just enough to pull out his limp cock. </p><p>And all Freddie can think is that this can't be happening, it can't be. </p><p>But it is. And he's agreed. </p><p>He raises his hand and averts his eyes, staring at the ugly, swamp-green carpet. <i>It's alright</i>, he tells himself, working his fingers up and down that squishy, disgusting piece of flesh and skin, so utterly alien and wrong in his hand. <i>It's alright, this is nothing.</i> It's just a cock. People do this for money. Somewhere out there. Day in, day out. This is some people's life. He'll get it over with, it's not the worst. He'll get it over with and that's that. <i>Don't think about it, just don't think about it.</i></p><p>It's half-hard in his hand now and for a few moments he thinks he can get away with this, that it's enough. That maybe-</p><p>A hand cups the back of his head, the silence in the room deafening, only broken by the laboured breathing of the man standing above him.</p><p>Freddie shuts his eyes for a moment, resisting the fingers threading into his hair, not quite pushing but still insistently urging him closer.</p><p>
  <i>Please, God.</i>
</p><p>"Go on." A filthy, commanding whisper, leaving no doubt about what's being asked of him. Not that he had any doubt, deep down. </p><p>Peering at the cock in his hand through his lashes because he doesn't want to look, he just doesn't want to look and remember looking, Freddie gives up his weak attempts of resistance and leans in, closing his lips around it. Squeezing his eyes shut. </p><p>The salty, bitter taste on his tongue immediately makes him want to gag, even as he's being pulled closer in. </p><p>But then it's almost not as bad, somehow. His mind goes elsewhere entirely, unwilling to acknowledge how he's gone from worrying about the bloody nail polish to sitting in a dingy room with some stranger's revolting dick in his mouth. All he's focused on is the fact that he's going to walk out of here instead of spending the rest of the day at the police station. Instead of being charged with theft. It's bloody lucky. The most irritating thing becomes the hand in his hair, just lingering there, its touch infuriatingly inoffensive. Almost tender. Freddie has the urge to claw at it, to knock it away, the fingers of his free hand digging into the underside of the chair so hard his fingertips have gone numb. </p><p>A couple of minutes drag by. Freddie thinks it won't be long now. Hopes, at least.</p><p>His jaw is aching and he pulls off for a bit, blinking his eyes open, faced with the angry red head of the cock he's tossing off. He realises he's given up not looking. Who the fuck cares? Maybe he <i>could</i> do this for money, he thinks numbly, feeling like a cold, calculating thing, strangely devoid of emotion. There's power in that thought. There's a choice in it. </p><p>He dives back in, going a bit faster. Makes himself gag on it. Digs the tip of his tongue into the underside of the hard shaft and flicks it against the head as he slides up and down, relieved when his efforts produce grunts of approval somewhere above him. It's been a long while, but it's not as though he doesn't remember how to get a guy off. <i>Come on, you bastard. Yes. Come on.</i></p><p>The fingers in his hair tighten, pull. </p><p>He's long since realised and accepted that there's no escaping the most unpleasant part, unless he wants it all over his clothes or wants to risk staining the hideous carpet. </p><p>There's no discernible warning and it's every bit as vile as he anticipated. The difference between doing this for someone he likes, when he wants to, and a complete stranger he's actively repulsed by, is like night and day. He scrunches his face up and gags at the awful taste and texture. Bringing himself to swallow it down feels like a herculean effort. </p><p>And at the same time, even while he's trying to stop himself gagging at the aftertaste, wiping at his watering eyes with the back of his hand, he rejoices that it's over. </p><p>It's alright. He'll be alright. </p><p>It's over now. </p><p>The officer pats him on the head, still catching his breath. </p><p>"Well…! I reckon you did both of us a favour there, didn't ya," he snorts derisively. </p><p>The grim feeling of victory shatters and shame returns with such a vengeance that it makes him feel physically ill. Freddie sits, hands curled into each other in his lap, and waits for the man to do his uniform up again. </p><p>But it's alright. It passes. He's alright when he's walking down the street ten minutes later. <i>Free</i>. Only distantly aware of his feet on the pavement, of where he's going. </p><p>Home, probably. </p><p>He's alright. He doesn't even feel like crying now. He doesn't really feel anything at all. </p><p>Not until he's at home, in the bathroom, and he can't look at himself in the mirror properly. He just <i>can't</i>. </p><p>Closing his eyes doesn't help either. Behind his eyelids, unbidden images await, and sensory memories he can't seem to suppress. The tears make a return then, leaving hot trails on his cheeks. </p><p>Freddie, however, is shivering. Bone-chillingly cold. </p><p>- - -</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And for some comfort after all this hurt, go read Natasha's fic!</p><p>Also, do let me know what you think. That's always much appreciated. ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>